Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #22 January 2016 | Page 5

back cracked. I was definitely getting too old for this
latest crisis. The kid hustled to stay next to me as I
strode out the door. Soon we reached a door marked
Emergency Elf Services. I took a deep breath and
opened it. “Almost everyone here is from the Shelf
brigade,” I whispered as we slipped inside. Hundreds
of elves were lying on cots. Some had slings holding
up broken arms and legs. Others had bloodstained bandages around their heads.
Moans assaulted our ears.

“He didn’t seem that hurt. You should rough
him up a bit and get him on the production line. You
said you were behind on getting the Babbling Bonnies
fixed.” The kid looked around. “In fact, I bet a number
of these injured could get out there right now with the
right stimulation.”
Boy, this younger generation with
their noses always in their smart pads
was pretty heartless. Had I been like
this when I first started? “Kid, if
you’d seen all I’d seen through
the years, you wouldn’t say
that.”

“What gives with these
guys?” the youngster asked.
“Things were
working fine with the old
‘Naughty or Nice’ list, but
Big Red wanted a method
that was less work for
him. I came up with the
Shelf brigade, which
spies on children and
flies back here every
night to report. There’s
only one thing I didn’t
consider.” I looked
expectantly at the kid, but
he simply stared back at
me. With a sigh I added,
“Bird strikes.”

Bong! The huge
clock on the wall startled
me and I looked up. It
showed two hours until
Santa departure.
“Shouldn’t you
get out there and check
the production line of
Babbling Bonnies?”
the kid said somewhat
insolently.
Alarmed at the
time, I didn’t reprimand
the kid. I turned, hurried
through a few corridors and
entered a huge room. The
deafening roar of ten conveyor
belts slammed into us. Hundreds of
elves grabbed at boxes as they sped
past their positions. Some were frantically
unboxing and putting the dolls on neighboring
belts to be handled. Others were tearing the dolls
apart and soldering in new mechanisms. A final group
was frantically reboxing and rewrapping. While we
watched, five elves collapsed. They were dragged
aside while replacements jumped in so as not to hold
up the line. The distraught elves were fanned briefly,
milk was tossed in their faces and cookies stuffed in
their mouths to revive them, and then they stumbled
back to the belts to help.

I walked to where
a young elfling lay. He had a
huge bandage encasing most of
his head and one eye, and he was
sobbing hysterically. When he noticed
me, he clutched my hand. “Please, please,
don’t send me back out there! This time it was a
great horned owl. It kept diving at me, over and over.”
He let out a huge wail, “I can’t do it anymore!”
“There, there,” I said soothingly. I’d seen too
many of these overwhelmed striplings. “I’ll get you a
job in records. You just rest now and get better.”
I stood up and saw the kid scowling at me.
“What?” I barked.

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